By the Blood of the Lion
by kenziescott54
Summary: "Though we serve in the temple of Tash, in our hearts we still serve Aslan." Calormen has invaded Narnia, the king is dead, and Aslan has not yet seen fit to return. But his people are never deserted. Canon until halfway through The Last Battle, AU from then on. Drama/Adventure/Romance
1. Chapter 1

**Hi!**

 **A bit of background before you dive in: This story takes place ten years after the events of the Last Battle. In that way it is canon. However, Narnia was captured by Calormen, and Aslan has not yet returned, and as a result the world hasn't ended. In that way it is AU. I understand it might be confusing, but the details will become clearer as time goes on.**

 **I deviate from canon at the point in the book where Tirian is tied to the tree.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the Chronicles of Narnia.**

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

* * *

It was very cold.

So close to the desert, the daytime was stiflingly hot; but the night was always bitterly cold, even in the warmest part of the year.

Clydia drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders and hurried across the cold floor. The outer temple of Tash was completely open, so that worshipers of lower castes (merchants, peasants, vendors, servants, even slaves) could still access their god, and the maidens of the temple were not allowed to wear shoes; so the cold marble stung Clydia's feet as she left the inner temple.

Clydia gathered the minims from the little bronze bowls beside every pillar, emptying them into her basket. Such were the offerings of the poor, and yet she knew how much these offerings cost them.

The sun was rising by the time she finished. The basket was now full of the little silver coins, and had grown quite heavy in Clydia's arms. She gripped it tightly and crossed the floor again. The outer temple was enormous; Clydia had been told that it could hold thousands of people at a time. She didn't know how to count such numbers, but every year at the autumn feast, she saw it filled with a great multitude of people - so many people that it seemed impossible they should all be in one place.

The doors to the inner temple were guarded by two of the Indre, the elite guard of the Tisroc. The few Indre that did not serve within the palace were relegated to protecting the temple's wealth and women. They were like masked, stone statues, their faces always covered by their armor, and they looked quite fearsome. But they were always silent, and Clydia had long ago learned not to be afraid of them. They opened the opened the great gold doors for her - silently as always - and let her slip in.

The gold doors actually opened into a narrow hallway that surrounded the inner temple, not directly into the inner temple itself, although they were called the Gold Doors of the Inner Temple. This hallway was made of wood and was called the hall of silence. It was said that the sacred silence, carefully preserved by anyone who passed through the hall, kept the cries of the common people from wearing on the ears of the god. Clydia's way took her all the way around to the hall's opposite side, where another set of double doors led into the receiving room.

The receiving room would have been better titled the temple treasury. The offerings of the people were kept here, until such a time as they could be taken to the palace treasury or disposed of as the Tisroc saw fit. This usually happened twice a year at the passing of the seasons. The doors to this room were always guarded by eight Indre, four on one side and four on the other, two on either side of the doors.

"May Tash guide the enlightened," said Clydia.

The guards opened the doors for her, and she passed through, repeating the pass word to the soldiers on the other side. Then she hurriedly counted the coins into their receiving bins.

The receiving room was not large, and on its opposite side was the Sacred Court. The priest of Tash lived permanently in the Sacred Court, as did the seventy pure maidens of Tash. Clydia had been brought here first when she was a scared child, perhaps of six or eight years - no one, least of all Clydia, really knew. Now, ten years later, Clydia was one of the oldest maidens of the Court. She knew her time to leave would come soon, but she hoped there would be lenience for the doubtful years that separated her from her coming of age.

The doors to the Sacred Court were guarded not by Indre, but by eunuchs. These men were not silent and faceless, like the Indre; they were not masked, neither did they hide the way they watched the maidens. They would have been burned alive in a slow fire if any of them were to be caught in an act of infidelity, but that did not stop them watching. They had been watching more lately, as Clydia grew older.

They knew her by sight, and she did not require a password to enter here. She pulled her cloak around her again, concealing herself as much as possible in its shapelessness, and passed under their stare into the Court.

* * *

The tenth Calormene Tisroc had been overthrown by rebellious priests. As a result, his son, the tenth Tisroc, after reclaming his father's reign, set up a new kingdom. Ever since that day, when he restored the rule of the Tisrocs and built the Temple of Tash in what would become the center of Tashbaan, there had been the Indre, and there had been the maidens of Tash.

By his decree, seventy pure maidens that had not yet come of age would live in the temple and perform the rites and duties, instead of full-grown male priests, who were capable of much more. There was only one priest, in fact, and he was called upon during the feasts and other high matters. The maidens were the gatherers, the incense-burners, the silent and beautiful faces of the temple. They were brought into service no older than six years, and they were expelled once they reached their eighteenth. No one cared what happened to them after that. Sometimes they fetched high prices in the streets or in the brothels. At other times, men came directly to the temple to take a maiden that had come of age into their harem.

When Narnia and her king, called Tirian the Young by the exiled Narnians, was taken by Calormen and Clydia's father was killed in battle, she, the only one left of her family, had been taken into the service of Tash. Her mother had died in childbirth, and she had no siblings. All that was a vague and distant, though terrible, memory, ten years in the past, and Clydia was used to her life as a maiden of Tash.

She was also used to hiding the secret that she, along with all the other Narnian maidens in the temple, still kept the sacred name of Aslan in her heart. Long ago, the Tisroc had abandoned the notion propagated during the taking of Narnia that the god Tash and the lion Aslan were one and the same. Now Aslan's name was forbidden, and Tash was said to be the one and only God.

But Clydia, raised in the belief of the great Lion after the manner of Narnian girls who were long gone from the temple, was thankful for the fact that she knew the truth. She did not have to worship a god who required the blood of children on his altar, or one who favored the wealthy and condemned the poor, one who made slaves of the humble and lords of the strong and wicked. If she had had to believe in Tash, like the Calormene maidens, then life would have seemed hard.

But she knew that Aslan favored no man above another, and that she was as dear to him as the greatest king that had ever lived in Narnia. And that was a great comfort to her.

* * *

Ahariel tasted dirt.

Finon drove his knee between Ahariel's shoulderblades, pinning him effectively to the ground. Grunting, Ahariel released his weapon. He refused, as always, to say the words that admitted defeat, but Finon understood. He stood, offering a hand to Ahariel, which he ignored as he struggled painfully to his feet.

To this day, Finon was the only member of the training class that Ahariel had never defeated. He had won against all the others (not that he won in every fight, but he'd had at least one victory over each of them) but however excellent Ahariel became, Finon was always a little bit better.

Finon was tall, broad-shouldered, and extremely good-looking, with smooth skin and heavy brows. He was loud-voiced and abnormally strong for his age, but he was said among the trainers to have a heart as soft as a woman's. Ahariel hated to admit it, even to himself, but it was true. Finon was Ahariel's only true friend among the trainers, and though he was brave and honorable, he had never displayed a warrior's heart. Ahariel was ashamed of him for this, but he still loved Finon like a brother.

"Mayhap next time thou wilt fare better," said Finon, slapping Ahariel on the shoulder. Ahariel refused to flinch, though his entire body was aching and Finon's laughter was grating on him. He only nodded, then turned to go back to the mess hall. It was nearing the seventh hour of the evening, and time for the trainers to eat.

Finon caught up with him as he shed his armor. "Thou art a stubborn one," he grunted. "Say that thou'rt hurt, and I would help thee."

"I need no help," Ahariel said through his teeth. Though he'd been training for years, a day like today was enough to make him, in the master's eyes, as weak as a child, a fact he greatly resented. He had been beaten severely that morning for walking onto the training ground late, and he had been sparring with first Akiel and then Finon ever since, on rough terrain, without being allowed to take a rest or any refreshment. It had been many hours, and though he could take the sparring and feel only tired, or take the beating and rise the next day with ease, taking both in the same day weakened him.

As both he and Finon knew, this was an unacceptable quality for an Indre. They must be the ultimate warriors. They could not be made into mere soldiers from a day's hardship. Ahariel knew that the master had been watching him all morning, and so he had fought harder than he felt able to fight, just to show that he felt no pain. He was the worse for it now.

"Seven days," Finon said, changing the subject abruptly. "Seven days, brother. I can hardly believe it."

"Believe it," said Ahariel tersely, bandaging an open wound on his shin. In seven days, the oldest trainers, those who had come of age in the last year, would be reviewed. In ten, they would receive word of the warriors chosen to become Indre. Those who did not were generally released to Tash's army and made to become common soldiers, instead of the high calling which they had trained for. This was the deepest disgrace, and generals to whom these soldiers were assigned were often detrimental, brutal, and abusive. Often, these were men who were jealous of the training that these men had received, and so they used their power to make the ex-trainers miserable.

 _The minds of common people_ , Ahariel thought. _That is how they think._

"Hast thou heard a word of what I have said these past five minutes?" Finon demanded. "Thou art a dreamer indeed."

Ahariel glanced at him. "Thy tongue runneth on too fast."

Finon clapped him on the back, and they walked to the mess hall. To call a warrior a dreamer or a babbler was a great insult, but insults had become Ahariel and Finon's way of showing affection to one another.

In truth, though he tried to hide it from Finon, Ahariel was dreading the review. He had suspected for a long time that the only reason he'd been allowed to train all these years was because of his father's prominence. The trainers that were not strong and prodigious were all sons of Tarkaans, and though Ahariel was the best of the Tarkaans on the training ground, he could not hope to conquer the others in terms of strength. Generally, his quick wit aided him in a fight; no one except Finon matched him in that, not even the master himself. But Ahariel knew that one of the first things the scouts looked at were the strength and size of the young men they scouted, and he was sadly lacking.

Ever since he was tiny, Ahariel had known that he wanted to be Indre. His father, one of the noblest Tarkaans in Tashbaan, had cultivated this desire in him, and by the time he was old enough to be accepted, Ahariel had thought that there was no higher honor than to be Indre.

The tenth Tisroc had instituted the Indre as his own personal guard. They had to be the best trained of all soldiers in Calormen. In the years since, the training had not grown any less rigorous, but the roles of the Indre had diversified. For instance, some of the Indre guarded the Sacred Court of Tash's temple; the maidens of Tash were said to be one of Calormen's greatest treasures. But the majority of the Indre kept guard over the Tisroc, and when the Tisroc went to battle, they were the vanguard.

To be Indre was to be feared and admired by all, but more importantly to be great in the eyes of the Tisroc and in the eyes of Tash. And that was all Ahariel had ever wanted.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for reading. Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Chronicles of Narnia**

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

* * *

Clydia prostrated herself on the floor before the great statue of Tash in the Inner Temple.

Every morning before the people came to the temple, before the maidens performed their services in aiding those who brought sacrifices or offerings, they were required to spend an hour in silent worship. Seventy silent girls, dressed in loose white robes, lay before the statue, rather like statues themselves, for they were so still.

At the end of the hour, they would rise, and the First Maiden would cry, "Behold the great god Tash!" and the rest would answer her, "We tremble in fear at his name." She would say again, "Behold!" and they cried, "We pour our adoration out before him!" And then the ritual was over, the girls would file out in silence, and their duties would begin.

As always, Clydia prayed silently to Aslan, begging his forgiveness for bowing before Tash, and begging him to accept her humble praise and thanksgiving. Like all the others who followed the tradition of the secret worship of the Lion within the temple of Tash, she did not know if Aslan forgave bowing before Tash. But she knew that she believed in him and him only, and that Tash was only a phantom to her, and believed also that Aslan would honor what was in her heart.

Besides, had she refused, she would have been killed in the worst way possible. Once, one of the Narnian maidens had refused. One of the Indre had been called by the priest, and he had struck her over and over again until she could neither stand nor speak, but she still refused to worship Tash. One of the other girls had run forward, and she also was struck down. Then both were carried out of the Inner Temple and into the main square of Tashbaan and burned in a slow fire before all the people.

The maidens were forced to stand on the roof of the temple and watch, since they were never allowed to leave the building. The people still spoke about it in low voices - it was rare to see all the maidens together, and they were like spectres, standing still and silent all in white watching their sister burn.

It was a horrible day.

From that day onward, Clydia and all the others understood the price of disobedience. And they knelt before Tash and worshiped Aslan every day, and begged for the Lion to forgive them.

* * *

As the maidens filed out of the temple, two of the eunuchs came down the hallway towards them. Everything within the temple worked like clockwork - and if it didn't everyone responsible was punished terribly - and so the sight of the two men caused a silent but complete panic. The girls kept walking, but the so did the eunuchs; no one said a thing, the silence was complete; the eunuchs seized Clydia and another girl, a Calormene named Iyestra, by their arms, and walked towards the Sacred Court with them.

All this was done in complete silence.

Clydia's heart was pounding, and her mouth felt dry. She dared not look at Iyestra, because she didn't know if she mightn't be punished for that. She was sure that she had done something wrong, something that warranted punishment, but she did not know what it was.

The eunuchs weren't saying, either. They took the girls to the entrance of the Sacred Court and opened the doors, then bowed, motioning for the two to enter.

Clydia did look at Iyestra then, and Iyestra was looking back at her, her expression mirroring exactly what Clydia was feeling: a cold kind of terror. They took hands, these two girls that had never once spoken to each other, and entered the Court together.

* * *

Seventy-two people were allowed into the sacred court by Tash: the priest, the seventy maidens, and the messenger of the Tisroc.

The tradition of the messenger of the Tisroc was that a child was taken from its mother's breast and raised in the palace of the Tisroc, eating no meat and drinking no wine. When he was of age, he was castrated and swore before Tash never to give himself to the things of the world. That done, he was considered a trustworthy messenger, and he served the Tisroc until his death, when a new messenger was initiated.

The messenger, because of his vow, was allowed into the Sacred Court when even the eunuchs must stay without. And it was he who stood before the two maidens today.

Clydia and Iyestra didn't know the messenger's face, but they knew his costume, because they had been told what it looked like. They stood before him, and he stood before them, side by side with the priest.

"Mouthpiece of the Tisroc, may he live forever," said the priest, "will they serve?"

The messenger looked from one girl to the other.

"They come of age this year?" he said.

"The maiden Iyestra comes of age a moon from today," answered the priest. "The maiden Clydia was taken from the land of the barbarians, and is said to come of age this year."

"They will serve," said the messenger.

"Maidens of Tash," said the priest. "You are released from your service. Today, you will be taken to the court of the king and dressed in robes of the palace. Remember that you still serve Tash."

Clydia did not dare to speak; she could only stare mutely. They were being taken to the palace? They were leaving the temple, before their coming of age? But why? Were they not to be told? She thought wildly of the other Narnian maidens - of one in particular, her friend Lyriel. What would they think had happened to her? How could she bear to be parted from them, her only friends?

Iyestra squeezed her hand suddenly, and Clydia realized she was gripping the other girl very tightly. She loosened her hold.

"When do they go?" the priest asked the messenger.

"Tomorrow, at noon," answered the messenger, "there will be brought here a litter, to carry them safely to the palace."

"They will be ready," said the priest.

* * *

"Ahariel Tarkaan!"

Ahariel sprang to his feet. The mess hall was buzzing with noise as the trainers finished their evening meal; Finon, long done with his portion, had been resting with his feet upon the bench. He sat upright as the master approached.

"Yes, my master?" Ahariel said.

"Come with me," said the master.

There was nothing else to be done; complete and immediate obedience had been ingrained into the trainers like their letters. Ahariel cast a glance at Finon, who looked as startled as Ahariel felt, and followed the master.

They walked out of the mess hall, through the training grounds, past the barracks were the trainers slept, and to the master's own residence, where his office was. At this time of day, the grounds were completely deserted; everyone was in the mess hall. The trainers, who never outnumbered This office was usually forbidden to the trainers, except when they were being either dismissed early or promoted early. Somehow, Ahariel doubted that the latter circumstance was the case; but he couldn't even think of the former as being a possibility.

The office, which Ahariel had never before entered, was fairly simple: a square table, made of hard wood, a chair behind the table, and a firkin of wine on the table. The master rounded the table and sat in the chair, but didn't touch the firkin. Ahariel stood motionless in front of him, waiting.

"Ahariel Tarkaan," said the master, "thou hast trained on this ground for these ten years."

Ahariel said nothing.

"Thou art the most obedient and courageous of all my students. Thou art neither headstrong nor foolish."

This was great praise, a thing the master never gave the trainers, for fear of making them vain, or conceited. Still, Ahariel said nothing.

"To be Indre is to be obedient to the last degree, to be brave, to stop at nothing to defend your king. Thou hast this grace granted to thee by the gods. But to be Indre is also to be stronger than all other men."

Ahariel said nothing.

"This vital quality is the only one thou lackest," said the master, his eyes steeling into Ahariel's.

Ahariel said nothing.

"Ahariel Tarkaan, you cannot be Indre."

* * *

Ahariel said nothing.

The world had become dark in his eyes. What future was there for him, if not Indre? The life of a common soldier? This was lowly and detestable. It would be better for him to end himself, since Tash had rejected him.

The master was speaking again. Ahariel forced himself to listen, although nothing the master said could now interest him.

"There is still a way for thee to serve Tash, Ahariel Tarkaan. Indre thou cannot be, but there is need for a warrior of thy skill, thy wit, and thy endurance in the service of the Tisroc, may he live forever."

Ahariel listened, despite himself. Could it be that Tash had not rejected him, then?

"From time to time," said the master, "it must be that the Tisroc, may he live forever, has need of a...an informer, if you will. Within the palace walls, there are often those who would rebel, those who would plot against him. Thou knowest the history well, that many great Tisrocs have been overthrown and their blood spilled by their own sons."

Ahariel could not quite believe what he was hearing.

"I have been asked to look for one who would be willing and able to perform this task in the service of the Tisroc, may he live forever," said the master, looking at Ahariel's face keenly. "One whose wit is unrivalled, one who may pass in the palace unnoticed, as an Indre cannot; one who is utterly devoted to Tash and to his most noble servant, the Tisroc. Ahariel Tarkaan, through my discernment and my choice, the gods have chosen thee for this station. Wilt thou take it?"

"O my master," said Ahariel, in a sort of daze, "if the gods have chosen, let it be so. I will take it."

"Ahariel Tarkaan," said the master, "thou hast chosen well. Thy training ends this very day; thy service in the court of the Tisroc, may he live forever, begins tomorrow. Thou wilt take all thy possessions and make ready to travel, and make quick work of it; and prepare to remove to the royal city of Tashbaan tomorrow at dawn. As is the custom once one has left these sacred grounds, thou shalt never return here all the days of thy life. This is the will of the gods."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! I really appreciate everyone's feedback. Keep it coming :)**

 **-Kenzie**


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own The Chronicles of Narnia.**

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

* * *

It had been hours since the maidens had gone to bed.

The complete darkness covered them. You could not have seen a thing in that great, enclosed space, the room where the seventy maidens slept, cut off from all light; during the night hours, when the lamps were out, it was blacker than a raven's wing.

But Clydia had lived here for ten years. She knew her way around this room better than she knew the lines of her own palm.

She slipped out of her bed and walked slowly down the small space between the beds, counting each one as her fingers brushed it. When she reached the twenty-eighth bed from her own, she slipped into the narrow space between the beds.

Slowly, carefully, she lowered her hand until she felt the warm breath of the girl in the bed. Then she put her hand over her mouth.

The girl in the bed gasped, and Clydia whispered, "Lyriel, it's me, it's Clydia."

Lyriel exhaled in relief, and Clydia released her hold. In the quietest of whispers, for the maidens were forbidden to be awake during the night hours, Lyriel said, "Clydia, what has happened? I have been so worried, you don't know -"

"They are taking us away," Clydia whispered wildly. "Iyestra and I, they're taking away from the temple, to the palace. I don't know why. Oh, Lyriel…"

Lyriel clasped Clydia's hand, and Clydia rubbed the familiar scars on the back of Lyriel's fingers. When Clydia had first come to the temple, Lyriel had already been there a month; she, too, was Narnian. Sometime during the first year, when Clydia was still learning the rules, she had accidentally mis-spoken a chant of praise to Tash. Lyriel, taking the blame, had received the heavy cuts across both hands that made up the pattern of ugly scars she still bore.

If Clydia had had a sister, Lyriel would have been that sister. From the time Lyriel had taken Clydia's first punishment, the two would have done anything for each other. In fact, Clydia had done with Lyriel what she had done with no other maiden in the temple - she had prayed with her. This was too dangerous to do in private very often, since you could be discovered at any time; but the maidens often did it on their own. To do it with another was dangerous enough to be foolish, but still Clydia had prayed with Lyriel, and she had found it a great comfort.

It was Lyriel who had first whispered to Clydia the secret that the Narnian maidens still kept the Lion in their hearts. It was Lyriel that Clydia had thought of when she had heard that she must leave the temple. Of course she had known she was going to leave when she came of age, but she and Lyriel had counted on leaving together, or at least, if Lyriel were to leave before Clydia, for Lyriel to come and find her the day she did she did leave the temple. And now there was no surety that they would ever see each other again.

"I would tell you to be strong, sister," whispered Lyriel. "But my heart is too heavy. This is hard to bear!"

They held each other silently in the darkness. They didn't cry; the habit of tears had been trained out of these girls at an early age, but they felt the loss far more keenly than you or I would have. The temple was their entire world, and they were like family to one another; and the thought of losing each other was enough to cast them into despair.

"You must go," Lyriel whispered finally. "The sun will soon rise."

Clydia gripped Lyriel's hands. "May the Lion be with you," she said.

"And with you," answered Lyriel.

If you had heard their voices, you would have had no idea of the pain in their hearts.

Then Clydia rose and counted the beds until she reached her own, and lay down, and waited for sunrise.

* * *

"Speak to me, Ahariel!"

Ahariel ignored Finon; his mind was still racing as he gathered his meagre possessions into his satchel. "This is my punishment," he murmured, more to himself than Finon. "The gods have chosen to punish me; for what, I know not."

"By the gods, I'm tired of this. How are they punishing you?" demanded Finon, who for some reason never used the courtly speech unless he had to. When he was alone with Ahariel, he insisted on speaking like a commoner; he had only grown more persistent in this habit as he grew closer to manhood. This had always annoyed Ahariel, as he knew that once they were Indre, the courtly speech was the only sort they would be permitted to use.

 _But what use is that now?_ he thought to himself. _I must learn to speak as a commoner also. One must do that in order to be a spy._

" _Ahariel!_ " exclaimed Finon, after several moments of silence.

"I'm leaving!" Ahariel shouted at him. Several of the others in the barracks turned to look, and Ahariel lowered his voice. "I am leaving early. The gods have not even seen fit to allow me to reach the review."

Finon did not speak. Ahariel knew that Finon knew what a blow this must be to Ahariel.

"I blaspheme," said Ahariel, after a moment. "I cannot wish to go against the will of the gods, and it is assuredly their will that this is my fate. But it is a sad fate."

"Are you returning to your father's house?" asked Finon.

"No," said Ahariel, closing his bag and sitting down so that the two faced each other. "I go to the palace at dawn."

"To the palace!"

"Yes."

"Are you going to explain anything at all?" asked Finon, after a moment of silence. "Or shall I have to draw everything out of you with a question?"

"I am going into the service of the Tisroc as a spy."

"You! A spy?"

Ahariel frowned at him. Finon had often said that Ahariel was artless, but Ahariel vehemently disagreed with this. He knew himself well enough to know that he had subtlety. But what need had the Indre for secrets and snakes? They were built upon honesty; one could not truly serve Tash and lie to his master.

At least, that was what Ahariel had always believed. But the master had said that the Tisroc needed spies, who were by nature liars; and the Tisroc was the very mouthpiece of Tash.

"Finon," Ahariel said, after a moment, "my heart cannot feel joy at this new prospect. Has everything that we have always been led to believe about Tash been false? In his service, we are to be honest men; yet he tells me I am to lie."

"In his service," Finon answered, "we are to obey him above all. Have you forgotten that? He requires honesty, except when his own plans transcend it. Above honesty is devotion. Before truth comes loyalty."

Ahariel made no answer. Finon's words, an echo of something he had indeed heard the master say, soured within him.

Ahariel was Indre. Ever since he was a small child, he had known he was Indre. Every single day that he trained, despite his size, he had known that he would be Indre. He had served Tash faithfully, praying, fasting, sacrificing and offering to him as the rituals required; and Tash had blessed him in return with great favor over the years. Was not Ahariel's very position in the trainers' camp an indication of that favor?

And yet now, at the most crucial moment of Ahariel's life, it seemed that Tash had turned his back on him.

"When have I not served Tash?" he asked aloud. "When have I not sacrificed to him my joy, in order that I might be worthy to be his servant?"

"Ahariel," said Finon, "the one thing you would never give up was your hope of becoming Indre. Maybe Tash saw fit to take that from you, so that he could better mold you into...into whatever he wants you to become."

"It was not a hope!" Ahariel shouted, springing to his feet and beginning to pace. "Not a hope, not a dream, not a wish...it was my destiny!"

"Well, you don't decide your destiny, do you?" asked Finon blandly. "Tash does."

Ahariel turned to glare at him. "Thy speech becomes more uncouth at every turn," he snapped.

Finon rolled his eyes in a most unsoldierly manner. "I'm trying to help you! And all you can tell me is 'thy speech is uncouth?'"

Ahariel didn't answer.

"Ahariel," Finon said after a moment. "I'm sorry, I truly am. I know what this meant to you, my friend."

Ahariel stopped pacing and sank down onto his bed opposite Finon.

"We will be friends no longer," he reminded him.

Finon raised his eyebrows. "Who determines that, Ahariel?"

"The law," said Ahariel, sharply. "Or hast thou forgotten it? Undoubtedly thou wilt be Indre, and they are separate; that is part of what it means to be Indre. And also, because of what I must do, I must be friendly with everyone and a friend to no one."

"That sounds lonely," said Finon, quietly. "Ahariel, you don't have to do this, you know."

"What else am I to do?" Ahariel demanded. "Return to the house of my father in shame? Tash has chosen this for me, Finon. He rejected me as Indre, but still he has a purpose for me, and it is my duty to fulfill that purpose." He looked closely at Finon. "Art thou suggesting that I _rebel against Tash?_ "

"No," said Finon."Who can hide from Tash?" But he said it quickly, and there was something about the way he avoided Ahariel's eyes that made him ask:

"What is it that thou would have said?"

"Ahariel," said Finon bluntly, raising his head, "I will miss you."

"Come," said Ahariel, standing up again. "This is no time to show weakness. I have no doubt thou wilt be Indre, Finon, and when -"

"Do not be stone for once!" Finon shouted at him, rising to his feet. "Show that you have some flesh and blood in you, brother, and are not only a...a...figurehead!"

There was a dead silence. Everyone in the barracks had turned to stare at them, shocked by Finon's outburst. Ahariel stared at him in shock.

"Do not dishonor thy calling," he snapped. "Stone is what thou must be, Finon. Stone is what we were trained to be."

He left Finon standing in the barracks, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He was not set to leave until sunrise the next day, but why should he stay in the barracks where he no longer belonged, where everywhere he looked he was reminded only of his shame and his failure?

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for reading! I'd really appreciate your feedback :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Chronicles of Narnia. Well, I own the books in a single volume, which is well worn and ragged. But not the rights and all that legal jazz.**

* * *

It was a quick clasp of the hands when they rose from their beds, a brief whisper before they slipped out of each other's sight, and Lyriel and Clydia were parted forever. Lyriel followed the rest of the maidens in their silent procession out of the Sacred Court to attend to their individual daily tasks, wearing the white robes of the temple. But Clydia and Iyestra, dressed in scarlet, walked directly into the Hall of Silence, and from there into the open outer temple, where they waited - in silence, as they had been trained to do everything.

Clydia's heart was pounding fast. For ten years, she had worn nothing but white - the color the maidens and the priest wore in the service of the temple. Now she and Iyestra were dressed in the the color the maidens wore when they were released from the temple.

The purpose of these red robes, the girls had been told, was to inform the people of the city that the girls' purity and honor had fallen from them, that Tash had rejected them and that they were no longer fit to serve him. No one ever explained _why_ Tash rejected them or why they had to leave the temple; it seemed that any maiden over eighteen simply was no longer acceptable to Tash.

So the girls wore red on their eighteenth name-days, and were cast out of the temple. Red was the color of a harlot, the color of a criminal, the color of shame. Clydia had never heard what happened to the girls after they put on the red robes and left the temple. Some of the little Calormen girls that came into the temple, before they learned that talking to the other maidens was forbidden, implied that the maidens in red were not treated kindly; but Clydia had never heard anything concrete, and besides, they were small.

Now, standing veiled in the outer court with Iyestra, just inside the first set of pillars, Clydia could see some of the faces of the people as they passed before them at a distance. Some of them were coming to the temple to worship, and Clydia recognized some of their faces; men and women that she had seen come to the outer temple before, people that had appeared respectful before, now leered at Clydia and Iyestra as they passed. Some of them spat at the girls' feet, and a few of them whispered words under their breath as they passed, words clearly meant for the girls. Clydia did not recognize most of the words, but they were said with such malice and contempt that she felt she could almost divine their meaning. Besides, she did know some of the words - _daughters of dogs_ was repeated over and over.

Suddenly the temple behind Clydia seemed like a haven of safety. She drew closer to Iyestra, feeling glad for the other girl's presence and for her veil. At least her face was hidden from these people, and she did not have to stand alone. The rumors were true, then, and the people of the city held the discharged girls in contempt. Clydia could almost be glad that she was being taken to the palace instead of being simply released into the city, as she would have been otherwise; one outcome was as unknown as the other, but at least there she would not have to face the glittering eyes and unpleasant smiles of the people of the city.

They stood there, in their robes and their veils, until the noon hour came. Clydia was ready to sink both from standing for hours and from the heat when she saw the palace litter being borne down the street, flanked by six soldiers and headed by the messenger of the Tisroc. This was what they had been instructed by the priest to look for.

Iyestra took a step forward, then glanced back at Clydia; but Clydia's feet seemed to be stuck to the marble floor beneath her. Never in ten years had she been beyond the pillars of the temple, and her body felt unwilling now to step outside of its boundaries. It had been forbidden and warned against for so long that it felt incredibly wrong, and even more incredibly unsafe, to leave.

The litter stopped in front of the steps and was lowered to the ground. The messenger of the Tisroc came up the steps and stopped outside the pillars, waiting for the maidens.

Iyestra reached for Clydia's hand, and Clydia grasped it tightly in her own, and they stepped beyond the pillars and followed the messenger's gesturing hand down the steps, towards the litter. Clydia's heart seemed to be beating right through her chest; she was incredibly aware of everything - the blank, impassive faces of the soldiers, the rough feel of the cobblestones beneath her bare feet (the maidens did not wear shoes), and the sounds of the city going on around her. You could hear those sounds from the temple, but they were always much fainter. Clydia's ears wanted to explode at the sheer volume of the shoutings and callings going on in the street.

Inside the litter, the sounds were not much quieter. Iyestra drew the curtains closed around them, her hands trembling visibly, and sat down on the floor of the litter across from where Clydia had already seated herself. The litter was lifted, rocking unsteadily, and both girls grabbed at each other; but then the rocking stopped and they were moving, being bumped slightly with every step of the soldiers.

Being inside the litter was almost like being inside a little hot, shaded and heavily perfumed room. The floor was padded so as to be quite comfortable to sit upon, and there were two solid walls to put your back against so that you didn't fall out of the litter when it rocked too much. The two walls, and the curtains that covered the remaining two sides of the litter, did nothing to prevent the voices of the people of the city; Clydia could hear them calling to each other, hawking their wares, cursing at each other, scolding their children, sassing their mothers. Clydia had never heard such an assortment of voices and conversations all at the same time, and all _so loudly_. She pressed her hands over her ears, trying to block some of the sounds out and regain some semblance of peace inside her head. She felt terrified.

 _Help me, Aslan,_ she prayed silently. _Help me survive this_.

As soon as she thought it, she realized that it was not just the noise and the unfamiliarity of her surroundings that frightened her. It was the idea of not knowing in the least what awaited her at the palace. What on earth did the Tisroc want with her and with Iyestra?

 _Help me,_ she prayed again, pressing her hands tightly to either side of her head. _Whatever is going to happen, I can't face it alone. Oh, Aslan, I am afraid!_

* * *

The sun beat down on Ahariel's shoulders. He had been travelling now for upwards of seven hours, with only a few rests, and he was nearing Tashbaan.

He was not alone. The master had thought it was best he travel with the messenger that had ridden to the training ground. This was not _the_ messenger of the Tisroc, but he was one of the men that was kept in reserve in case the current messenger was killed or died before his time. These messengers were sent out far more often than the official messenger of the Tisroc, mostly because the official messenger could go places where the others couldn't, such as the Sacred Court of the temple in Tashbaan, or the innermost parts of the Tisroc's palace.

The messenger said very little to Ahariel, who said even less in return. Last night's run had not calmed his agitated mind in the least; in fact, he felt his shame more keenly than ever. He had prayed to Tash that morning with all the proper rites, but his heart had been heavy. He had wanted to plead with Tash, to ask him for a sign; but he could not rebel against Tash's will, and he knew it. His last sight of Finon, standing in the barracks as Ahariel turned his back on him, kept coming back to him unbidden, no matter how he tried to stop it. He had no reason to feel guilt at his own words to Finon or his manner of saying them, and yet he did.

Guilt and shame; shame and guilt. He felt them keenly as he rode in silence with the messenger, and they occupied all of his thought.

* * *

Ahariel had been to Tashbaan only a handful of times. His family lived a few miles southwest of the city, along the river, but as Ahariel had started training very young, his leisure visits to the city had been when he was a small child. He had seen very little of his family since then; he was in the city once every year, for the Autumn Feast, and he generally saw his father then; his sister had long ago been given in service of the temple, and his mother had been dead for six years. Ahariel had been twelve, and though she was his mother he had never known her well enough to mourn her as his father did.

At any rate, the parts of Tashbaan that one saw for the Autumn Feast - the main square, the outer temple - were not indicative of most of the city. Ahariel knew from Finon, who had grown up in Tashbaan, that the greater part of the city was uncultivated and squalid and that the streets were a maze of dogs and thieves and waste.

He realized, as they reached the main road outside of Tashbaan, that as a spy for the Tisroc he might be required to go into those parts of the city, to associate with _those_ people, the people that lived in the hovels and the filth that Finon had described to him. He frowned, brushing the thought aside. He had enough unpleasant things to think about without adding yet another.

They crested the last hill before the road dropped down towards the city. Beneath him, the Tashbaan glowed brightly in the noon sun. There was a steady flow of people joining Ahariel and the messenger on this road; pilgrims, Tarkaans, the occasional travelling merchant, and just civilians, sometimes families, on their way to visit the city. The messenger wove his horse through the rapidly thickening crowd, and Ahariel followed him as the sounds and smells of the city grew thicker.

The gates of Tashbaan were packed; the two men dismounted and led their horses through the throngs of people waiting to be admitted. The messenger slipped a bag into the hands of the soldier closest to them, who immediately waved them in.

From this point onwards, Ahariel had no idea where he was going; he could only follow the messenger. He knew that the palace was at the very center and on the highest ground of the city, but he had never been there before. He stayed close to the messenger's back, keeping himself as far away from the dirty children sitting on the side of the road and th e

They came to a part of the city where the noise and the nasty smells faded somewhat; there were no more vendors lining the streets, and there were fewer people with dirty faces and ragged clothing. They passed buildings with actual greenery in front of them, mostly well-trimmed bushes in pots. The buildings themselves were also cleaner and brighter looking. They were in the residential part of Tashbaan, where some of the Tarkaans lived.

Ahariel had been in this part of the city enough times to know it fairly well. As his father was a Tarkaan, he and his family were always hosted by one of the other Tarkaans for the Autumn Feast. Ahariel knew the names of many of the lords who lived in the homes that they passed, but he brushed aside the memories, as he was accustomed to doing. There was no need for nostalgia, for sentimentality, in the life of an Indre. These things made you too weak.

* * *

The innermost circle of the city contained the grandest homes of all; closing the palace off from them was a garden, walled on both sides, with one gate in each wall, so that there was only one entrance to the palace through the garden. Both gates were guarded by four Indre.

Ahariel, accustomed to feeling pride and honor at the sight of the silent, masked soldiers, instead felt the now-familiar shame growing inside him as his eyes fell upon their shining armor. What had seemed so close yesterday morning, the calling that he had considered his sure future, was now like an unattainable dream. For the first time, he found himself looking away from the silent soldiers, and a small part of his heart seemed to wither as he did it.

The messenger gave a password to the first set of Indre, who unlocked the first gate. The path, paved with marble, led directly through the garden to the second gate, which was unlocked by the second set of Indre.

Beyond this gate was a large, open courtyard, and beyond it was the palace. As grand as it looked from a distance, it was even more ornate from up close; but Ahariel had learned long ago not to be dazzled by any sight, even if it was the residence of the Tisroc himself.

There was a small party in the courtyard already; a stately litter, the kind that was used to transport members of the Tisroc's court, and a small group of soldiers. None of them paid any attention to the messenger and Ahariel, who nevertheless halted, waiting for them to pass.

They didn't. The carriers were setting the litter down, and Ahariel realized that whoever was in the litter was entering the palace, not leaving it. The messenger immediately dismounted, and Ahariel hastily followed suit.

The litter curtain opened, and two veiled figures stepped out. They were clad in rich scarlet robes, the dress of a girl who has just been released from the temple. Immediately, the wind lifted the veil off one of the faces, and Ahariel saw that it was a barbarian, one of the Narnians, whom he had heard of but had never seen up close. She was very young, he thought, and he observed with amazement that her skin really was the color of cream, just as they said; and her eyes were light blue, like the sky on a clear, sunny day.

But the most striking thing about her was not her skin, or her eyes, or any of that; it was far less tangible. There was something remarkably innocent and artless in the way she looked out of that veil; here was one who had never learned how to be subtle. Thought was written so plainly on her face that he could see her fear there, as clear as day. She looked around her, head turning quickly and eyes scanning, as one who cannot take everything in, and that was when she looked directly into Ahariel's face.

All this took only a few seconds, and then she tugged the veil down. Only a few seconds, and yet Ahariel had never before been so struck by any woman.

The moment was over faster than it had begun. The carriers were bearing the litter away, and the two girls were entering the palace, flanked by the soldiers, and Ahariel was left to wonder why exactly, if even for a second, his sense had left him and his control had slipped.

* * *

 **Woohoo, another update. Thank you for reading it, fellow sons and daughters of Aslan! If you liked it, please review it for me. I'd love it.**

 **By the way, in case you haven't figured it out yet, this is a Christian story. Or a story with very Christian elements, considering the source material and all.**

 **-Kenzie**


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Chronicles of Narnia. I _do_ own Clydia and Ahariel, and I am getting a little attatched :)**

* * *

For you or I, it would almost be impossible to imagine what Clydia was experiencing. You must remember that she had spent nearly her entire life in one place; she knew the temple, its inhabitants, and its rules and routines by heart, and had for the last ten years. That had been not only her home, but her entire world.

She was struck by absolutely everything she saw around her. She knew the names of most of the objects she was seeing, and indeed had often seem some iteration of them before - marble, gold, doors, plants - but here the marble floor was so much whiter and a bit less smooth than that of the temple; here the gold was not in coins or statues, but lining doorways and wrapping around pillars; here the sizes and shapes and colors of the plants were as varied and numerous as the faces of the girls in the temple.

There were also Indre absolutely everywhere. Clydia was used to seeing them in the temple, but only two or four at a time. Here at the palace, they were everywhere she looked; there were ten of them alone at the doors of the palace.

These doors were taller than two men; there were two of them, intricately and ornately decorated with shining gold designs and patterns. Clydia barely had time to study them before they were opened by two of the Indre. They did this silently, without any word from the messenger.

Clydia had been overwhelmed at the sight of the outside of the palace, but upon seeing its interior she could barely think. The opulence, the shocking richness and brightness and intensity of the colors within - mostly maroon and gold - had her looking everywhere, but seeing almost nothing. The messenger was walking very quickly, and she and Iyestra had to hurry to keep up with him. Everything was done in silence, but this did not bother her; she was used to it. It was noises that she disliked.

Her heart was beating very hard and very fast as she walked, and it was hard to draw her breath, as if she had been moving very quickly. The further her steps took her into the palace, the more apprehensive and frankly _frightened_ she felt. She had learned a long time ago that there was never any need to be afraid, if you believed in the Lion; but it had been easy to believe that then, when she was not feeling like this. The last time she could remember feeling anywhere close to this afraid was when the Narnian girl, Lily, had been burned for her belief in the open square.

She could not even explain _why_ she was so afraid; there was nothing threatening in her surroundings or in the messenger's demeanor, and all of the Indre standing around the hallways were nearly invisible to her, because she was so used to them. Yet she did not _know_ the surroundings themselves, and maybe that was why she was so afraid. She had not yet learned that it was natural to be afraid of what one knows nothing about, but she was experiencing it first hand.

She felt as if they'd been taken down countless hallways and seen a great deal of unbelievable sights, but in reality they had been walking only for about a minute when the messenger stopped. They were outside yet another pair of double doors - a great deal smaller, but almost as ornate as the doors to the palace. This door, too was guarded by Indre.

The messenger said to them, "The greatest treasures of the kingdom, from the humblest of its servants."

It must have been a passphrase, because they opened the doors (which swung outward, not inward) and Clydia had a vague impression of gauzy curtains and stone pillars and marble floors before the messenger spoke again, and she turned to listen to him.

"Thou wilt go in," he was saying, "and be received by she who wears the snake upon her left wrist. She will tell thee thy purpose. May Tash be with you." Then he bowed low, turned, and walked away, his feet barely making any sound on the strip of thick carpet that ran down the middle of the marble-floored hallway.

Clydia looked at Iyestra, and again the two girls joined hands. Together they turned and went into the room. Immediately the doors were closed behind them by the Indre, again almost soundlessly.

They found themselves in a small square room, lined with stone pillars at every corner. Between the pillars hung curtains of a color indiscriminate to Clydia. Other than the two girls, the room was completely empty.

Clydia stood stock still, not wanting or feeling the need to move or speak. Her mind was crowded with everything that she had seen and heard, and her head hurt slightly. Her bare feet felt very dirty and a bit sore, and she was very hot from the ride in the litter. Her heart was still beating abnormally fast, and her mind flitted from one thing to another, seemingly unable to find anything to settle on. Oddly enough, she found herself thinking rather prominently of one thing in particular: the young soldier she'd seen in the courtyard.

Her experience with people in general was limited; her memory of life before the temple was extremely blurred and vague, and within the temple she was barely allowed to communicate with the other maidens. Men she knew about, and saw in the outer court, but had never spoken to, with the exception of the priest and the eunuchs. And no one that she had ever seen or encountered had ever looked at her the way the young soldier had.

He had been slender, but slightly taller than the men that stood around him; though his eyes were as black and skin as dark as all Calormenes, somehow his looked different to her, more exotic, more beautiful. We call this mysterious, intangible beautification "fancying" someone. Of course, it had never happened to Clydia, and so she did not know what to call it or even what it was. It did not affect her as such a thing would have affected someone else; no, for Clydia it was momentous, a turning point, something she could not come back from. She was changed.

But this was not the only thing that had changed her. She had seen so many new and different things now, and she felt that even if she were to be taken back to the temple that night and allowed to stay there her entire life, she would not feel the same at all, now that she had seen all these new and different things. She would not be able to look at the double doors of the Hall of Silence without remembering the double doors that opened into the palace. She would not be able to walk the marble floors of the temple without remembering the feel of the palace floor under her feet.

The curtains in front of them, opposite the doors, suddenly parted, and a woman appeared between them. She was wearing a great deal of long, ornate drapey things of all colors, and bracelets jangled on her wrists. Clydia had seen a great deal of richly dressed women during the Autumn Feasts, but this woman outshone them all; she was so bedecked that she seemed almost clownish. A heavy scent of perfume swept round the little room, obviously emanating from her.

"Oh, _you're_ the maidens," she said lazily; there was no hint of the courtly speech about her. "Take off those silly veils, girls! Trust me, you won't be needing _those_ any longer."

Clydia released Iyestra's hand and pulled off her veil.

"You will have to take off those horrible red things," continued the woman, waving her hand at the girls' dresses. "Scarlet, the color of shame, the color of castoffs and barbarians and gutter rats, _ugh_. Absolutely vile, them sending you here dressed like _that_. Well, we will see to that shortly. What are your names?"

"My name is Iyestra, lady," said that girl, speaking first.

"And I am Clydia."

"Clydia," the woman echoed, looking more closely at Clydia's face. "A barbarian, are you? That is what I was told, but I hardly expected it would be true...ah, well, maybe the Tisroc, may he live forever, wants something...different. Come with me."

She turned her back on them with a sharp, abrupt movement, leaving the girls standing in the middle of the room. After a second, Iyestra hurried after her. Clydia followed almost at once, her fear of being alone outweighing her fear of the unknown, wondering what the woman meant by what she'd said.

 _A different...kind._

The woman had exited through the curtains through which she'd entered; Iyestra swept them open and Clydia followed her through. She had expected another room, but instead she found herself in yet another courtyard. The sunlight was so bright, and the walls and pillars so ornamented with gold, that she had to squint in order to keep her eyes from aching. She could smell a cloying, sickeningly sweet scent that reminded her of the incense from the temple, and she could also faintly hear a chant of praise to Tash in female voices.

"Welcome," said the woman in front of them, sweeping her arms in a circle, "to the harem of the Tisroc."

* * *

 _My life belongs to Tash._

Ahariel knelt by his window, feeling the warmth of the late afternoon sun on his face. He was housed in the palace, waiting to be called upon by the Tisroc himself; he did not know when he would be called, or what would happen when he was; all he knew was that he was to remain here, ready for the call.

His meal had already been brought to him, but it remained on his table uneaten. Not a morsel had passed his lips since he learned of Tash's rejection; food mattered less to him now than it had before, and the sun became darker in his eyes as the hours passed.

"Have I not always served thee?" he asked aloud.

In the distance, out of his window, he could see the roof of Tash's temple. It was not a proper prayer as he was not in the temple or at a shrine, but he could not leave his room, so it was all that he could do.

"Have I not given thee everything, o Tash? Why, why, why hast thou rejected me?" he pleaded.

In all his years, as faithfully as he had always prayed to Tash, Ahariel could never say that he knew for _certain_ that Tash had answered him. He had heard people speak of Tash answering their prayers - through a sign, through a dream - but it had never happened to him, and he had always wondered why. Now he was starting to wonder if Tash had ever favored him as he'd always thought. Perhaps that was why Tash had never spoken to him - because Ahariel was not worthy to be his servant.

"If I am not worthy of thee," he breathed, "at least show me. Give me a boon! The priests have said that thou wilt always answer thy faithful children, those who have done enough to earn thy favor, those who are worthy of thee. O Tash, if I am not worthy, what shall I do to become worthy?"

The room was silent; and all Ahariel could hear was the blood rushing in his ears. His head bowed, and he was filled with a shameful anger. Anger at Tash was unholy; it was wrong, it was unforgivable, and yet he could not help himself.

"Oh, I am a wretched man," he murmured, no longer a prayer to Tash, but a whisper to himself. "I have failed in every way. If I am proved unworthy to serve Tash, I am unworthy to live. _What shall I do to be worthy_?"

* * *

 **Thank you so much for reading! And to WildHorses and Michka, thank you for your faithful reviewing. It means a lot!** **Feedback is always helpful (winky winky)**

 **-Kenzie**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Chronicles of Narnia**

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

* * *

"You will be prepared for two weeks," said the head of the Tisroc's harem, the heavily perfumed woman.

Her name, Clydia had learned, was Asada. She had a languid way of speaking, as if she was highly uninterested in everything going on around her, and her face, beautiful as it was, did not look as if it was capable of smiling. Everything about her was harsh and angled, from her well-carved cheekbones to her long fingernails.

They were standing in a stone-floored, stone-walled room with a high, stone ceiling. Clydia could not have told anyone the way they'd come to save her life; she had never been through so many hallways and rooms in all her short life, and was impossibly overwhelmed. Now that she was standing still on one place, she had more of a chance to observe her surroundings.

The room was very long and rather narrow, and there were several large square holes in the floor, each hole lined with marble and full of clear water, upon the surface of which floated what looked like rose petals. Steam rose from the water in wafts, and at the end of the room Clydia could see women in simple linen dresses dropping hot stones into the pools to keep the water heated.

The entire room was humid with the steam from the water, and Clydia could feel her hair and her clothing sticking closely to her, rather like when she was forced to stand outside for hours on a very hot day. Unlike the dry heat of the day that one felt out in the open, however, the oppressiveness of the damp air in this room made her feel as if she could barely breathe.

"And then, oh my mistress?" asked Iyestra in the courtly speech, in response to Asada's remark.

Asada waved her hand vaguely. "Then the Tisroc will call for you, one after the other. You will each spend a night with him, and then you will join the rest of his harem, waiting to be called for."

"Oh my mistress," said Iyestra, "pardon my ignorance, for I am only a temple maiden; but have I not heard that the Tisroc, may he live forever, must not have more or less than twelve maidens in his harm at any time?"

"You've heard correctly," said Asada, who seemed to have no regard for the courtly speech whatsoever. "But the Tisroc, may he live forever, tires of his maidens sometimes, and then they must be replaced. You two are young, innocent virgins from the temple; he chose you."

Clydia swallowed the bile that had suddenly risen in her throat.

"Oh my mistress, what happened to the other two?" asked Iyestra, giving voice to the question Clydia so desperately wanted to know the answer to but couldn't find it in herself to ask.

Asada adjusted her shawl. "They were executed, of course," she said calmly. "What other life is there for them, after leaving the harem of the Tisroc?"

.

An hour later, and both girls had been bathed, oiled, and scented until Clydia felt like one of those painted women that she often saw being carried in litters during the Autumn Feast. They were in another room now, as ostentatiously decorated as the rest of the palace, and in this room was a long, reflective glass stretching the entire length of the room.

Iyestra and Lyriel, led by two servants (for that was who the women in the simple clothes were) straight to this room after bathing, had not yet seen any of the remaining harem. So far, the only people they had seen since entering the palace were Asada and the Indre that stood still and silent at every turn.

Clydia had seen her reflection many times in the back of a plate, but it was always blurry. Here in the reflective glass, the image was as stark and clear as if she was looking at another person; in fact, she felt very disconnected from the face looking back at her from the glass, as if she was looking at someone other than herself.

In the temple, it was always easy to notice how Lyriel and the other Narnians stood out among the other maidens, but somehow it had never occurred to her that she stood out just as much as they did. Looking at the face that belonged to her, she wondered what other people saw when they looked at it. What did the other maidens, Asada, the messenger, the young warrior in the courtyard - what did they see?

Clydia was not sure what she saw, besides a Narnian among the Calormenes.

Beside her Iyestra was likewise watching her reflection, and when Clydia looked at her, their eyes met in the mirror. To Clydia's surprise, there was no fear or worry in Iyestra's face; while Clydia felt cold with horror, as if the world was tilting upside down, it might have been just a normal day at the temple for Iyestra, judging by her manner.

It was then that Clydia realized that for Iyestra, there was no need to feel fear. She was a Calormene, and as such she had been raised to believe that the Tisroc's harem was a place of high honor for a maiden. The position came with a certain amount of freedom; women of the harem were allowed to come and go and do as they pleased. And to serve the Tisroc was a honor for a young maiden who worshiped Tash.

But Clydia worshiped the Lion, and as she stood waiting for whatever came next, she prayed to him with everything in her, pleading for him to save her from this new horror.

* * *

On the morning after his arrival, Ahariel had finally broken his fast and was eating some grapes that had been brought to his room for him when a palace messenger arrived.

"The Tisroc, may he live forever, requests thy presence," he announced.

Ahariel put down the grapevine, feeling his stomach sink slightly. It was time.

He had spent most of the night praying deeply to Tash, but Tash had not answered him and he felt highly uneasy within himself. His entire life Tash had given him a sense of purpose, a direction in which to point his feet, but now, at the most essential moment in his life - a meeting with the Tisroc himself - Tash chose to desert him?

If only Tash would allow him to _understand._

The messenger led Ahariel through the halls of the palace, and although his mind tracked his movements just as he'd been trained, he barely noticed the beauty and the opulence of his surroundings, focusing only on what his actions would be once he was in the Tisroc's presence.

And then the messenger stopped before a great golden set of doors, on either side of which stood two Indre, and bowed low. Ahariel did the same.

Two of the Indre opened the doors, and Ahariel went in alone into the presence of the Tisroc, and the doors were closed behind him.

.

Ahariel had never seen the Tisroc; very few men ever had.

His father was just old enough to remember the days when it was still considered safe for the Tisroc to show his face to the people once a year - at the Autumn Feast, when all the people were gathered in the center of the city for seven days, to celebrate Tash's goodness in letting them live another year. But times had grown darker since then, and Ahariel's father had told him the story of the present Tisroc's father - called Ashtah the Mighty - being killed by an arrow to the throat at the Autumn Feast, nearly fifty years ago, before all the people.

No one had ever caught the archer, but ever since that day, the Tisroc sent his proxy to the Feast instead of attending himself.

The present Tisroc was the son of Ashtah, and his face had not been seen since he was a very young child. He was called Armaish the Vanquisher, for he had done what no other Tisroc had ever been able to achieve - conquered the kingdoms of Narnia and Archenland, and in so doing become the ruler of the entire known world. He was the greatest Tisroc ever to have lived, and his greatness had left Ahariel in awe his entire life - not only because of his great feats of strength, but because no Tisroc had ever before been so favored by Tash.

For, small as they were, the barbarian lands of Narnia and Archenland had always been Calormen's most formidable enemy. They were under the protection of the foulest demon to ever exist, a being of great power, an abomination that defied Tash and that walked the world freely in the shape of a great lion. Even though it defied Tash, its power was so great that it had kept the two tiny barbarian kingdoms under its protection for generations upon generations; so much so, that there were people who believed that it was greater even than Tash himself.

In the years before the vanquishing of the barbarian lands, many battles had been fought with the people of the barbarian lands, and every time the mighty Calormene army had inexplicably been defeated by the straight swords and bright faces of the barbarians. King Erlian, the next to last king of Narnia, had defeated a Calormene army of ten thousand men with only two thousand of his own.

Under Armarish the Vanquisher, however, Narnia had fallen, and it was this feat that made Armaish the greatest of all the Tisrocs. His proxy had held the head of the Narnian king before the people and the celebrations had lasted for weeks; the beasts of Narnia, who had been endowed by their protective demon with unnatural and terrible gifts of human speech, were sent into the mines and the stables and other places where they could serve the Tisroc; and the surviving Narnian people were made slaves in the very places they despised the most - the temple of Tash, the palace of the Tisroc, the homes of the great Tarkaans. Only this way was it possible to humble them, to force them to understand that they were ruled by Tash.

No one knew what had happened to the demon that guarded the barbarian lands. In the ten years since the Vanquishing, he had never once been seen, or even heard of. According to the high priest of Tash, this meant that the demon had once and for all been destroyed by the great god, and the people of Calormen could live in peace and safety forevermore.

.

The very first thing that occurred to Ahariel when he finally saw the face of the Tisroc was that he was very, very old.

When his father Ashtah had died fifty years ago, Armaish had been nearly forty years of age, and so Ahariel had known that he was not a young man. But he had been taught that the Tisroc, as Tash's most favored servant and the ruler of his great land, was blessed with immortality that would fail only if he was fatally wounded; Tisrocs did not die of old age, as other men did. Perhaps Ahariel had assumed that, for that reason, the Tisrocs did not age as other men did either; but it appeared that he was wrong in this regard.

The throne room was so vast and opulent, and the throne itself so huge and elaborately draped in thick silks that the Tisroc himself seemed as small as a child seated upon the throne. For a moment, Ahariel saw him only as a tiny, wizened old man, skin sallow, eyes sunken - the very picture of weakness; the next moment, he remembered himself and fell face forward onto the floor before the Tisroc, berating himself for his disrespectful thoughts.

While he lay there, he became aware that very few men had ever looked on the face of Armaish since he was crowned Tisroc. To be brought into the presence of the Tisroc was secondary only to being in the presence of Tash - which no living man had ever done, save the high priest himself. It was the highest honor that any man living in the kingdom could possess, and had Ahariel still believed himself favored of Tash, he would have been nearly overcome by the enormity of the moment.

But he knew now that he was not one of Tash's chosen, and so must believe that he was receiving this honor not because he deserved it, but to abase him, to show him how very much he did _not_ deserve it. Lying on the cold marble floor, with his heart pounding against his chest, he felt abased indeed, and the shame of it was nearly unbearable.

"Young warrior," said a voice, and Ahariel was surprised. It was not the voice of an old man - it was a younger, strong, virile voice, the voice of one who is in full command of his mind and his body.

It was as if Tash himself had reprimanded him - _I dared to think weakness of the Tisroc,_ Ahariel thought uneasily. _Tash has shown me the truth. I am truly unworthy and wretched._

"Thou hast no need to speak, only to listen," instructed the voice of the Tisroc. "Thou hast been brought here because it has been observed that thou art obedient to all the laws of this great land and to the rule of our royal person, the Tisroc. Yet many in this land are wavering in their allegiance, and they must be taught to fear us. It is required of thee to swear thy unwavering allegiance and loyalty to the great god Tash, to the Tisroc, and to Calormen. Once thou hast passed certain tests to prove thyself worthy, thou shalt be taken into the service of the Tisroc."

Ahariel said nothing.

"You are dismissed, young warrior," said the Tisroc.

Keeping his face to the ground, as he had been taught to do in the temple of Tash, Ahariel raised himself on his knees and crawled backwards towards the door, until his feet struck the heavy metal of the door, and it was opened, and he went into the hallway.

* * *

 **AN: Reading back over the previous chapters, I see I have a lot of editing to do. Don't worry, I'll get to it once this story's all finished.**

 **Wow, this took a heck of a long time to write. I can't believe I started this story over a year ago and it isn't already finished. Thank you for your kind messages! As I told most of you, the story's all planned out, I just have to write it. Thank you for sticking with me :)**

 **Please let me know what you think!**

 **-Kenzie**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Chronicles of Narnia**

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

* * *

It was the night of her arrival in the palace; Clydia had been in her bed for hours, and she had not closed her eyes once.

As exhausted as she felt from the dizzying array of sights and smells and feels she had been subjected to, Clydia still found she could not sleep. It is the same feeling that one has when one is trying to sleep for the first night in a strange new bed, only a thousand times magnified. She knew so little about the world outside of the temple; the maidens were shut away from that world when they were just old enough to begin to form memories, and they were encouraged to forget those memories quickly.

In the wee, wee hours of the morning, when she could not hear even the echo of a thing stirring in the entire palace, Clydia knelt by the side of her bed and prayed.

She had never once prayed a prayer like this before.

As difficult as she found it to try and take in all of the visual wonders she'd encountered, that was not what was keeping her awake. It was fear - fear that steadily grew, as she knelt in the silent dark, breathing in the smell of her new perfume, her knees sinking into the ornate carpet.

Never in her life had she ever felt something like this. There had been that time when the Narnian girl had been burned in the square, and from a distance she had seen the figure in white vanish into the flames and the black smoke; and the faint sound of the girl screaming - almost at once drowned out by the cruel cheers of the crowd - had haunted her sleep for years since.

But this was different. Now Clydia felt almost as if _she_ was the girl about to be cast into the flames - except that for her, there would be no end. For her, there was a life of the worst sort of servitude, to a man that she hated. And for that reason, she was afraid.

Never had she been at such a loss as to what to ask or how to ask it. The words spilling out of her were a jumble of fear and confusion and tears, and to anyone listening, they would hardly have made sense. Never had she longed for anything more than to be delivered from this present evil.

* * *

 _Child,_ said Aslan, _I am here._

The darkness of the room, just like the darkness and the fear in Clydia's mind, was gone in one instant; she could see and feel only one thing - the great, golden face of the Lion, gentle and beautiful and wild and great all at once. He was there, he was before her, he was breathing onto her face as she knelt, and her heart felt as if it would burst with the pure joy and majesty of his presence.

"I am always with you," said Aslan, and his words were sweeter than the most beautiful music one could ever dream to hear. "You have no cause to be afraid, daughter. I will allow nothing to harm you."

Perhaps it was only seconds that she knelt there, gazing up into the beautiful golden face of the Great Lion; perhaps it was hours; she would never be able to tell. But the fear had fled to the deepest corners of her heart, and instead she felt an incredible calm, the like of which she could never have imagined. She did not speak; the Lion had already spoken, and it was enough to be in his presence.

Then the Lion said, _Sleep_.

And then the room was pitch black again, and Clydia could no longer see the face of the Lion. But she could still hear his words; they were burned into her more strongly than any chant of Tash had ever been. And she knew with all her heart that she was safe.

There was no trace of fear. A great calm had settled on her, and she suddenly knew that she could sleep.

* * *

Ahariel had felt fear before.

He had felt anger, and worry, and loss, and he had faced all of those things as if they were simply another obstacle on the training grounds. He had overcome them, at least to the extent that he no longer let them control his actions.

But one thing that he had never once dealt with was this deep, invasive shame. It ate away at him - the ground he walked on, the taste of wine in his mouth, the feel of the silk that the Tisroc had given him to wear on his shoulders - as innocuous as all those things seemed, they only reminded him of this shame. The sun was dark in his eyes, and he went through the remainder of the evening - eating, washing, dressing for bed - as if he were going through a dream.

As soon as his head touched the pillow of his bed, Ahariel realized just how fatigued he was from the long journey to Tashbaan, and from his fast since the day of his release from the training camp; he had expected he would not be able to sleep at all, but he felt it overtaking him as soon as he closed his eyes.

* * *

What awoke him was a sound; not a very loud sound, but Ahariel had been trained to sleep lightly at all times, and to awake at the slightest whisper. He was awake in a moment, listening intently for the source of the sound.

It was still dark, and it took him a moment to be able to see around his room. The heavy curtain that covered the open doors to the balcony was rustling in the night breeze, and at first Ahariel thought it must have been this that awakened him. But as he closed his eyes to fall asleep again, he heard the sound once more - a low rumble, coming from the direction of the curtain.

Ahariel was on his feet in a moment, his hand reaching automatically for a sword that was not there. Even as his fingers grasped air and he remembered that he was weaponless, he knew that even if there was an armed man outside the curtain, he could still fight him with his bare hands.

Stealing noiselessly to the curtain, he swept it aside, and looked out onto the balcony, expecting to see the starry night sky and the lights of Tashbaan's night patrol in the streets below, and he knew not what standing on the balcony - a man with a scimitar drawn, perhaps.

Instead, he saw a Lion.

Ahariel had seen many lions before, and they were great and terrible creatures indeed; but this was a Lion greater than any other. In fact, it was not only greater than any other lion he had laid his eyes upon, but greater than _anything_ else he had ever seen, or even dreamed of seeing. It seemed far too huge for the balcony - and yet it stood there, magnificent, terrible, splendid - and looked straight into his eyes.

And Ahariel found it so terrible and beautiful and great that he could not look at it at all; he stumbled back, dropping the curtain, but the Lion was suddenly in his room with him.

And the room seemed to grow brighter, and the Lion more beautiful and terrible still; its very presence made Ahariel tremble like a tiny child - for what reason, he hardly knew. Yet in his heart, he knew he must respond to the Lion's presence, in some way; so he dropped flat with his face against the floor, as he did before Tash and the Tisroc, though they were but a distant thought to him now.

AHARIEL, said the Lion.

Ahariel's heart seemed to stop beating.

The voice of the Lion was a great and terrible sound, a sound to strike fear into the heart the greatest of all warriors, and it had spoken his name. And in his voice Ahariel heard great reproach and disappointment and it was awful, because for some reason all he wanted was for the Lion to think well of him.

Yet everything he had ever had cause to be proud of felt like wretched horse's dung in the Lion's presence. His overwhelming shame, his knowledge of his unworthiness, his deep unworthiness, flooded him like a mighty river, and his heart despaired of all hope. He was the most wretched of all creatures, the worst of all men, and he deserved only the lowest and least honorable death that was ever devised. If before he had thought himself broken with shame, then now he was completely undone, nothing but the mere shadow of a man. His world was forever changed; never would he be the same.

AHARIEL, said the Lion again.

But this time it was different. This time he did not feel the terrible, burning reproach; this time, a gentleness seemed to surround him, coming from the Lion's voice; a wonderful feeling that caused him to weep uncontrollably, like a little child, and that made him tremble from his place on the floor. And he thought to himself that he would do anything - _anything_ \- if he knew that it would make the Lion speak to him like that again.

For it was as if the Lion had given him a glimpse of a world without shame and brokenness, a world where the Lion spoke to him and was pleased with him, which was the thing that Ahariel now wanted the most in the world. And his mouth opened, as if to beg of the Lion, _tell me what to do, to partake of this world_ ; but no words came out.

THE CHOICE IS YOURS, said the Lion; as if he had understood Ahariel's innermost thoughts, he spoke. CHOOSE ME, OR CHOOSE TASH. BY THE HAND OF TASH, YOU WILL FIND DEATH AND DARKNESS. BUT BY THE BLOOD OF THE LION, YOU WILL FIND LIFE.

Ahariel started awake with the deep voice of the Lion still ringing in his ears; his body was still shaking and his face was wet with tears, but he was in his bed with the sheets tangled around him like a trap, his forehead covered in a cold sweat.

So it seemed that it had all been a dream.

And yet he knew that it had not been a dream; it had been more real than any experience he had yet lived. Never had he felt as alive or aware as he had a moment before, stretched on the floor at the feet of the Lion; never had his heart pounded so quickly, never had he felt anything so strongly. Even now, the tears flowed down his cheeks unheeded, a habit he had broken when he was scarcely four years old.

All his days, he had prayed and prayed and hoped and dreamed for a sign, a vision, a dream, anything from Tash - and instead, he recieved this, a vision from the Lion -

CHOOSE ME, OR CHOOSE TASH.

Ahariel felt hot, and then cold.

The Lion.

He knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that it must be _the_ Lion, the demon of the barbarian lands, the bane of Calormen and the Tisrocs, the enemy of Tash, that had appeared to him in his dream. Truly, he must be cursed by Tash to see such a vision.

That thought ought to have brought him great pain; but he did not feel at all as if he had been cursed. In those few short moments with the Lion, when he had called Ahariel's name for the second time, he had sensed something he had never before felt during the hours spent in the temple of Tash, something entirely impossible to explain. He had sensed no curse; in the presence of the Lion, for just a few seconds, he had even forgotten the shame that threatened to consume him. It was far more tangible than the sense he had always carried with him, that Tash had a purpose for him.

Never in his life had Ahariel felt a greater conflict within him; his chest seemed nearly torn apart, by what he had always known to be right and true, and what had just been revealed to him.

* * *

 **AN: I can't believe people are still reading this. Thank you so much for letting me work out this passion project of mine with such LONG breaks, and continuing to be so encouraging; your reviews and messages are like fuel to this story. Life has gotten so crazy recently, but I found time to write this last week, so here you are.**

 **-Kenzie**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Chronicles of Narnia.**

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

* * *

It was a muggy night.

The air hung hot and thick around the ears of the man named Osgar; the soft sound of leaves rustling threatened to put him to sleep.

He rose to his feet and paced, forcing his mind to stay alert. He was nearing the end of his watch, the time when one could most often expect an attack, since a watchman was usually the least alert at the very end of his watch.

Then there came a rustle.

Osgar was wide awake in a second, his arrow drawn to his shoulder, eyes staring out into the trees that grew a few yards beyond his hiding place.

The figure of a woman emerged from the trees, moving stealthily - had Osgar not been watching her, he could not have heard her, and could barely have seen her. As it was, his eyes had difficulty making her out from the shadows of the trees around her.

A few seconds more he watched her come, and then he lowered his arrow and stepped out from his hiding place.

The woman's head lifted, and she quickened her pace. Noiselessly she crossed the tiny patch of open space between the trees and the entrance to the structure where Osgar stood.

This little entrance was so overgrown with bushes and tree roots that you hardly would have seen it at night, unless you were looking for it. Osgar reached out and took the woman's hand, and helped her over the large cracks in the stone down to where he stood.

"You're early," he whispered.

Soft footsteps sounded behind them. The light of a torch was coming down the stone hallway; a dwarf peered up at them from under its light. Osgar and the woman nodded to him silently, and then he positioned himself where Osgar had stood a moment earlier, while they went back the way he had come.

The hall they walked through, once paved smoothly with stone on all sides, was riddled with cracks and with roots and trees growing through the cracks; along with the absolute silence, it served to give the hallway a lonely, long-deserted feel. Osgar and the woman walked steadily, nevertheless, for they knew these halls by heart.

Presently the woman whispered, "It has been a week to the day since I saw you last, and though I might not have returned to you alive, you have only to say that I am early."

In the dark, no one but Osgar was aware of the color that rose to his cheeks. "I was surprised," he whispered in return, "but I am more than glad to see you well."

"And I you," she returned. "We cannot take these things too lightly anymore."

After a few minutes of walking, they came to a closed door in the stone, under which a small amount of light filtered. Osgar knocked on the door softly three times, and it was opened by another dwarf.

The group of creatures gathered in the large cave to which this door opened were as varied as they were unusual. Dwarves slept huddled together around a tiny, dying fire in a deep corner of the cave; men were scattered in various positions around the room; foxes and wildcats, beavers, squirrels, mice, horses, dogs, all these and many more lay sleeping in the vast cave under the hill.

These were the last of the free peoples of Narnia.

From a spot near the door, a beautiful white creature rose from its resting position against the wall and walked closer to them. In the faint light from the dwarves' fire, its horn shone like its own little light in the darkness.

"You have returned early, Lilian," he said, softly, so as not to wake anyone else. "What news from the Calormen soldiers?"

"There is little to report," said she. "They are quiet tonight, Jewel. My brothers and sisters have heard no chatter."

These brothers and sisters that Lilian spoke of were none other than the living trees of the woods of Narnia; those that remained and had not been cut down and carted away by the Calormenes. For Lilian's mother had been a nyad, a woman of the trees; but her father was a man, which enabled her to live apart from the woods herself, although she felt their pain keenly. One could see it in the willowy lines of her face, which had looked young and beautiful ten years ago; now she was haggard and weary-looking, tired out with the many years of sorrow and loss.

Jewel, the unicorn, nodded his head. In his beautiful face, too, was written every memory of the past ten terrible years that he and the Narnians had lived under Calormene rule.

"Go and sleep, Lilian," he said. "I will call for you in the morning."

As the woman wove her way through the creatures sleeping on the floor, Osgar turned to the unicorn. "So it has been for many weeks," he said. "We continue to hear nothing."

"I know what it is that you suggest," said Jewel, "but if Runewit is not yet convinced that the time is right, then neither am I."

Osgar's brows drew together slightly. "I would wish for the stars to be aligned as much as you and Runewit," he said. "But we are as well-armed now as we ever will be; the Calormenes are unaware of our presence, and the suffering of our people in Calormen itself cannot go ignored much longer. And if we wait for winter, we cannot expect to survive it without losing many of our stores."

"I think of all these things many times every day," said Jewel. "And if I believed that this battle should be fought by my judgement or yours, we would have risen up long ago. Yet I have learned not to act upon my own judgement; the results of my folly from many years ago has taught me that."

"I am weary, I think," said Osgar, after a moment of silence. "In my head I agree with you, and yet my heart would have us make an end of this as swiftly as may be."

"We are all weary, my friend," said Jewel.

They stood in silence, and the light from the dwarves' fire burned to a mere smoulder, so that they could no longer see each other at all.

.

A deep, deep quiet had fallen upon the cave.

In the darkest hour of the night, when few living things stirred, when there was nothing to be heard, something changed.

Osgar's heartbeat quickened suddenly within him, and he could not have explained why; the night was as dark and silent as ever, and yet something was indeed very different.

Softly he said, "Jewel, my friend."

"What is it?" said the unicorn.

"I feel a change in the night," said Osgar.

"Yes," said Jewel, "I feel it too." And his voice was full of quiet wonder.

Just a moment, and then the odd feeling was gone; but it left behind a glow in their hearts, like the little rush of joy you feel from a treasured memory. Somehow, the night was a little less dark.

* * *

Morning was very close; the sky was beginning to brighten ever so slightly and the breeze was stirring the curtains.

Ahariel sat motionless in the middle of his bed.

Like most Calormenes, Ahariel, though naturally of a practical mind, was excessively superstitious, and believed in visions and demons and gods as easily as he believed that the sun rose in the morning. He did not doubt that what he had seen was a true vision, sent for him and only him.

It was precisely that fact that worried him so much.

He'd seen not just _any_ vision, and certainly not a vision from Tash; he had believed himself deserted of Tash, but not _cursed_ , and yet it seemed that he was indeed cursed. Only one who was truly cursed could have seen such a vision - the Lion, the protector of the kingdom that had laughed in the face of Tash's power for so long.

But he did not feel cursed.

Any joy, any sorrow, any thought or desire that he had ever experienced in his life, all paled in comparison to the rush of emotion that had soared through his chest, at the sight of the Lion. His entire life, when he looked back at it, seemed to shrink into nothing but monotony; there was a clear divide between the day before he had met the Lion, and every moment following it. Within himself, he knew that he was deeply changed, that he was no longer anything like the same man.

Who he now was, he could not tell for the world. Once, he had been a servant of Tash and the Tisroc, born of the great Tarkaans, a child of Calormen. Then after that, for a little while he had been like a man fallen from grace, deserted by the one thing he had always longed for.

But now? Now, he was like a weed, tossed about in the cruel desert winds, belonging to nothing, weaker than the child that was born yesterday.

What was he to do now?

After all, one foot must go in front of the other, the world must continue about its business, and he with it, for much was expected of him. But how he could go, now, into the dedicated service of the Tisroc - when the greatest enemy Calormen had ever faced had spoken to him face to face, and knew his very name?

.

It was not very often that Ahariel remembered his mother; it was the tradition for the wives of great Tarkaan lords to leave their children to the servants, and to see them only on special occasions. Ahariel's mother had not followed this tradition for the first few years of his life; after that, he rarely saw her at all.

In those first few years, his mother often used to sit with him and speak to him for hours at length, holding his hand in hers, telling him stories and legends. Ahariel's memories of this were vague, but plentiful; he had an impression of sunlight on the floor, of his mother's face - which, in his memory, was the most beautiful face he had ever seen - of her voice, and the feel of his hand in hers.

She used to tell him that he was meant for great, great things; that one day, Tash would speak to him as he used to speak to the great Tisrocs of old, that he would call Ahariel by name. For there was a legend that when Tash spoke to you by name, you no longer belonged to your family, or the world; you were Tash's, and his only.

The legend said that Tash had spoken to the first Tisroc thus; and he had risen up, following the voice of Tash, and taken the land that would later become Calormen.

Ahariel believed in this legend with all his heart, and he had always dreamed of the day when Tash would speak to him by name. There was now absolutely no hope of this, and Ahariel was upon the brink of despair at this thought.

Soon it would be morning. Soon he would leave this bed, and dress for the day, and go about whatever duties those that the Tisroc commanded would assign him. And he would do this today, and tomorrow, and every day for the rest of his life, if the Tisroc wished it.

And yet he would never, ever be a true servant of Tash.

* * *

 **Gah. I always upload like a month after I think I will. I'm working hard on auditions for the music programs at prospective colleges and it's taking up all my mental energy.**

 **Do leave a review if the mood strikes you!**

 **-K.**


End file.
